Rory’s Story Cubes Mini-Story #18
You can blame this on hearing Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough,” while streaming music this morning. That, and I’m in an unusually cranky mood.
Ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough, or however the fuck that song went. “Just call my name, and I’ll be there.”
Yeah, right. In real life, in reality, you call that name and you’re the only one who shows up because for whatever reason you end up being the most reliable person in your own life. A bitter dose that no amount of sugar will ease the going down thereof.
That knowledge doesn’t come like a bolt from the blue. It grows. It builds. It’s subtle, so you don’t notice it until it’s too late, and you’re alone, against the tide, against the world. You’re the alien, radioactive, a circus freak wearing an angry mask, and no one ever bothers to ask why.
Then again, you don’t want them to ask because you like that mask, the toxicity keeping everyone away; you relish strange.
Freak has a good ring to it.